


Good Boy

by OniGil



Series: Wayward Light [3]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Aftercare, Body Worship, Boot Worship, Consensual Petplay, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Humiliation, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Orgasm Denial, Sticky Sex, Tickling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-27
Updated: 2014-09-03
Packaged: 2018-02-14 23:29:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2207103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OniGil/pseuds/OniGil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I just thought you’d look nice in a collar and leash.”</p><p>Drift, Wing, and a collar. Shameless PWP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ThePeacefulKnight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePeacefulKnight/gifts).



> When Noot and I put our heads together, magnificent ideas happen. This story takes place within the Wayward Light continuity, but no previous knowledge is required. It's shameless PWP, after all.

            “ _No_ , Wing.”

            “But Drift!...”

            “No.”

            Wing pouts. There’s no other word for it. His mouth turns down and his optics get bigger and his shoulders slump, though he’s still holding that… that… _thing_ close to his chest. It doesn’t seem to mind. Maybe it’s too scared to move. Drift eyes it mistrustfully.

            “But look how cute it is,” Wing pleads.

            “Let’s see.” Drift ticks it off on his fingers. “Weird eyestalk things. _Slobber_. Fangs. Spines. And…” An involuntary shudder. “ _Fur_. We are _not_ taking that thing with us.”

            “We can name it Drift Jr,” Wing suggests, as though that _in any way makes it better._ The thing wriggles a little bit, its green sandpaper tongue flicking at Wing’s fingers. “Look! It likes me! How can you resist that face?”

            “Easily,” Drift says. “Drift Jr. stays here.”

            “You called it by name,” Wing crows.

            “Frag it!” Drift slaps a hand over his face and drags it down. “We are _not_ keeping it! What is it with you and strays?! Is this what you were like with me?” He layers Wing’s subvoc tones in his voice. “‘It’s so cute! I _need_ it!’”

            Wing gives him his innocent smile, but there’s a mischievous twist on the end. “Well,” he says, “I just thought you’d look nice in a collar and leash.”

            Drift’s faceplates go hot. “I’ll collar and leash _you_ ,” he growls.

            Wing’s engines rev involuntarily, startling Drift Jr. out of his arms and into the brush. Wing doesn’t seem to notice. His optics are glassy with possibilities as his vents stutter.

            _Oh_.

 

* * *

 

            Well, it _was_ a bounty hunter’s ship once. So yes, there’s a collar. And a leash too, for good measure. Drift turns the collar over and over in his hands. Wing can’t seem to take his optics off it.

            “You know you can stop this any time,” Drift says, again. It must be the third time he’s said these words. With the Decepticons he’d never have dreamed of anything like this. Well, maybe _something_ like this, but he could never have imagined someone taking it _willingly_. “Whenever you need. Or whenever you’re done. You remember? One word and we’ll stop.”

            “I understand,” Wing says softly.

            “And the signal, you remember?”

            Wing holds the smallest finger of each hand straight up. “I remember.” He smiles. “I’m not a sparkling, Drift. I have done things like this before.”

            Drift… doesn’t really want to think about that. Well, yes, it’s all right to think about _Wing_ like that, but he doesn’t want to think about Wing like that with someone who isn’t Drift. Someone he doesn’t know, or worse, someone he does, someone he met, unsuspecting, in New Crystal City. He used to be a Decepticon. Before that he was a gutter rat. He doesn’t like to share.

            _Don’t have to now_ , he thinks, with a bit of that old Decepticon possessiveness. They’ve got the whole ship to themselves.

            “Well, not exactly like this,” Wing says, thoughtfully. “This is new. But I know how to be safe.”

            “Just making sure,” Drift mutters. Wing leans in to kiss him.

            “Trust goes both ways, Drift,” he says. “Trust me to know my limits.”

            In the middle of another kiss, Drift loops the collar around Wing’s throat and pulls it just tight enough without compressing any vents or vital circuitry. Wing’s plating whispers in a shiver.

            “How’s that?” Drift asks, hooking a finger in the collar to check. “All right?”

            Wing nods. “Drift,” he sighs, kissing him again. “Drift, I—”

            Drift steps back so his knees hit the berth, and puts a finger to Wing’s lips. “Good pets don’t talk,” he says. Wing’s optics flare and his engines purr. “Except on special occasions,” Drift amends, and Wing tilts his head with one of his _oh, Drift_ smiles, fond and a touch exasperated. He opens his mouth for the tip of Drift’s finger, catching it gently between his dentae and wrapping his tongue around it.

          “And,” Drift says, pitching his voice lower, a little more Deadlock, “good pets don’t stand upright, do they?” He puts a hand on Wing’s shoulder and pushes downward. Wing offers no resistance, sinking gracefully to his knees, never looking away from Drift’s face, and the sheer dominance goes straight to Drift’s spike.

            Even more so when he sits on the side of the berth, and Wing leans between his legs and rests his head on Drift’s thigh, still staring up at him. All his normal focus and intensity is still there, but faded slightly, waiting. _Waiting for orders_ , Drift realizes, and his engine rumbles.

            He shifts his legs a little further apart, sliding his panel open. Wing finally breaks his stare to look down. He purrs happily and nudges forward, his mouthplates skimming over Drift’s equipment covers. His glossa flicks demurely at the spike cover, coaxing it back until Drift’s half-pressurized spike extends. Wing chirrs—Drift didn’t even know he could _make_ these sounds—and wraps his lips around the tip. Drift puts a hand on Wing’s helm, petting cautiously. Wing purrs again and the vibrations go straight through his spike. Drift’s hips jump forward, but Wing doesn’t seem to mind. He reaches up to wrap his hand around the base. Drift tweaks the point of one of his audial flares, making him yelp.

            “Good pets,” Drift gets out, “use their mouths. And only their mouths. If they want a treat.”

            Wing meekly lowers his hand, but slides his mouth a little further onto Drift’s spike, his glossa working cleverly at the nodes on the underside. Drift rewards him with feathering touches behind his audial fins, the kind that make Wing hum in pleasure even when he’s _not_ in pet mode, and Wing melts, redoubling his efforts. Drift presses his hips forward, his vents and Wing’s both kicking up faster. He’s not going to last very long, not with Wing on his knees, collared, obedient, _Drift’s_.

            He growls and presses Wing’s head down as he hits his overload. Wing conscientiously swallows it all, his glossa chasing whatever escapes. He cleans up without being asked, with clever little licks, and that’s when Drift notices that Wing has a hand between his own legs.

            He grasps one of Wing’s audial flares and pulls his head back, making the jet whimper, caught with his hand on his spike.

            “Bad pet,” Drift chastises, nudging Wing’s hand away with his foot. “You don’t get that unless I say so. Understood?”

            Wing can’t nod with his fin still trapped between Drift’s fingers, so he can only whine, his lips moving around a word that he bites back at the last moment.

            “Good,” Drift says, rubbing his pede against Wing’s spike. Wing moans, hips shifting to press against the contact. “Good boy. How about a reward?”

            Wing’s knees slide further apart as he braces his hands on the floor behind him, arching towards Drift. Drift rubs his toeplates along the underside of Wing’s spike, relishing every stifled noise as his pet rocks against him, chasing his own overload. It doesn’t take long—this is getting to both of them. Wing keens, optics going dark, as he shudders and comes. “D- _Drift_!” he blurts.

            Drift clucks. “What did I say about talking?”

            “Sorry,” Wing says automatically, then laughs breathlessly at his mistake and shuts his mouth.

            Drift nudges him again with his foot. “You made a mess, pet.”

            Wing’s optics flick back on, dim and hungry. He settles on all fours and ducks his head towards Drift’s pede until his lips brush the metal. His glossa flicks out to lap up his own transfluid. He keeps at it until Drift’s plating is shiny and clean, and then he rests his head on Drift’s thigh again, systems humming in contentment.

            Drift gives him the attention he wants, scratching behind his audial flares. “Still okay?” he whispers. Wing purrs, pushing against Drift’s hand for more scratches. That’s a definite yes.

            “We’re going to have to work on the talking,” Drift says. Wing just makes a sleepy noise, glancing curiously up. Out of subspace, Drift pulls the other item he’d picked up in Lockdown’s stores. Wing’s engines thrum excitedly at the sight of the gag and he opens his mouth eagerly to receive it.

            “Looks nice,” Drift says, after buckling it around the back of his helm. Wing’s pretty mouth, stretched around a ring.

            Wing purrs.

 

* * *

 

            Wing seems perfectly content to curl up and nap without signaling a time-out, the collar still cinched tight around his throat. Drift’s not complaining; he’s got a few more ideas, as long as Wing is enjoying himself. So he goes to check the consoles, then stretches out with Wing curled up and purring softly at his side, until his fuel tank pings him with an alert. He rouses Wing by rubbing his abdominal plating. Wing stretches and trills, loving the attention.

            “Hungry?” Drift asks. Wing clicks his optic shutters. Probably a yes. Okay _definitely_ a yes when he goes nuzzling between Drift’s legs. Drift laughs, nudging him away. “I mean I’m _actually_ going to feed you.”

            Though frag. Wing is a little kinkier than Drift gave him credit for. The thought makes him hungry in a different way.

            He fetches two cubes while Wing sits patiently on the berth. One he keeps for himself, taking a few long pulls to get a head start. The other he puts on the ground. Then he whistles. Wing looks at the cube, then up at Drift. Then he shrugs and slides to the ground, crawling without needing a reminder, and sweet _Primus_ the sway of his hips is deliciously distracting. Drift gulps down the rest of his own fuel as he watches Wing tackle the cube, a challenging task without the use of his hands and with his mouth stretched open. He’s careful, though, trying to be neat.

            _We’ll see about that_ , Drift thinks, finishing off his cube and tossing it aside. He circles around behind Wing, admiring the position he’s been forced into, head near the ground, hips in the air. Very compromising.

            Drift knees down behind him and runs his hands over the jet’s aft. Wing squeaks, spilling some energon. “Careful,” Drift admonishes. “Messy pets don’t get treats.” He leans in close and runs his glossa in a long stripe between Wing’s thighs. Wing makes a high noise, his hips pressing back. Drift traces his interface panel with one finger. “Open up.”

            Wing does, instantly, and Drift is fascinated to already see the glimmer of lubricant leaking from around his valve cover. Maybe it’s the collar. Maybe it’s being on all fours. Maybe it’s the humiliation. Maybe it’s Drift watching him. But something’s got Wing hot and bothered already.

            “Dessert,” Drift says in a low growl, leaning forward to run his glossa around the valve cover, tasting the sweetness. Wing trembles, still lapping up his energon, and slides back the cover to expose his valve. Drift’s glossa runs again around the rim, then dips inside. Wing bites back a moan, his legs sliding a little further apart. Drift wraps his arms around Wing’s thighs, lifting him slightly higher, and Wing yelps, catching himself on his elbows.

            “Keep drinking,” Drift says. “Don’t waste.”

            Wing practically sobs, obeying. Drift quits teasing and really goes to work on him, wriggling his glossa into Wing’s valve, seeking out his most sensitive nodes. Wing’s calipers cycle down furiously, the valve working around him. Drift keeps one arm to support Wing’s lower half and frees the other. He slides two fingers into the valve alongside his glossa, spreading it out for easier access. Wing moans, helpless in his position. He’s practically dripping, and his pleasure makes Drift’s engine rev hard as he plunges his glossa in deeper, Wing’s lubricant smearing his mouthplates.

            Wing’s moans escalate, as does his shivering. His wings flare out and Drift wishes he had a free hand to touch them, get his fingers into the joints and really make Wing scream, but that will have to wait until later, because Wing’s so close now that it would be cruel to stop here. (Another idea for later.) Excess charge crackles across Wing’s plating as Drift pulls him into overload. The cube topples, spilling what’s left of the energon, as Wing wails and scrabbles at the floor. Drift pulls away, letting Wing slump to the ground, his thighs streaked with lubricant. He takes Wing’s chin and his exhausted pet struggles into a sitting position. Drift kisses him, glossa pressing into Wing’s mouth much the way it had just done into his valve, letting Wing taste himself. Wing makes a little moan, quivering against him.

            “Still good?” Drift whispers. Wing nods. “You’ve made a mess,” Drift says, louder, letting go of his chin. Wing looks sheepishly at the spilled energon. Drift tweaks an audial fin. “Clean it up. And… keep your panel open.”

            Wing barely hesitates at all before going back onto his elbows and lapping the spilled energon off the floor. Drift’s spike surges at the sight. He settles back on his haunches, still admiring the sway of Wing’s hips as he cleans up after himself, and lets his spike pressurize into his hand.

            “Good boy,” he says. Wing purrs faintly, eyeing Drift from the corner of his optics. “So good. You know, I’ll bet we can find something to put in there.” He reaches out to brush his fingers against Wing’s still-exposed valve. Wing whimpers. “Something nice and cozy to spread you out wide. Keep it magnetized in there while you crawl around. I bet it would hit every sensor in your valve when it moves. I bet you could overload just from that, just from following me around.”

            Wing’s hips shift invitingly. Drift practically lunges at him—that kind of talk has always hit him right where it counts. One hand on Wing’s hip, drawing him back, steadying him. The other on the scruff of his neck, pinning him. He keeps an eye on Wing’s hands, but no signal comes as he thrusts home into Wing’s waiting valve.

            “I thought good little knights didn’t want stuff like this,” he says in Deadlock’s growl. “Maybe that’s why you like it.”

            Wing’s optics glint over his shoulder, behind the eagerly flicking fins, and Drift can just see the edge of a smile around the gag, hear the faintest trace of a laugh in his panting vents. And Wing’s valve gives the answer easily enough, cycling down hard on him. That’s what really revs Drift’s engine about all this. They both know Wing could overpower him easily, like he had hundreds of times before. Yet here they are: Wing wants this, likes that Drift wants it too, and that makes Drift want him all the more.

            It’s not as gentle as usual, because they both want it like this right now: hard, demanding, thorough. Drift wraps his fingers in the collar, adding just a bit more compression, and Wing writhes beneath him.

            “Wings,” Drift barks, and Wing obediently unfolds his flightpanels. Drift sacrifices the hand on Wing’s hip—doesn’t need it with Wing bucking back against him—to drag across the smooth surfaces, satisfying his need to touch. His fingers dig into the sensitive circuitry of the joints and the wings shudder. It makes Wing’s valve cycle down on him too. He tweaks a wingtip, pulling it back until a sharp wordless cry tears from Wing’s vocalizer and he bucks and strains against the hand on his neck. His valve calipers lock down around Drift’s spike, holding him firmly in place while Wing overloads. The clever demanding pressure pulls Drift into overload, coaxing his transfluid deep into the valve.

            Drift sprawls out across Wing’s back. His punishing grip on the wingtip becomes a caress, careful and seeking.

            “Doing okay?” he whispers. Wing nods, vents still roaring. “Good to stop yet?”

            Wing shakes his head. Drift snorts in laughter.

            “Frag, Wing, I can’t take too much more of this. How many rounds are you thinking?”

            Wing shakes his head again, his optics glittering with amusement. He stretches languidly, easing off of Drift’s spike, and clicks his panel shut right away without letting any transfluid escape. _Kinky little jet,_ Drift thinks again, as Wing crawls over to the berth and crouches on it, optics attentively on Drift. _Better see what he has in mind._

            But the minute he settles down on the berth, Wing flops over, resting his head in Drift’s lap and purring quietly.

            “Oh,” Drift says. “That’s okay too.”

            Wing trills and rubs his helm against Drift’s hand. The gentle thrum of his engines settles both of them, and Wing’s energy field relaxes gradually into something like recharge (though Drift has learned not to put his trust entirely in that). Drift can’t blame him. That was a lot of interfacing. In fact, he’s pretty exhausted himself, at least enough to power down for a few cycles…

            When he wakes up, groggy, the lights are dim—sneaky jet must have gotten up at some point—and he has a warm weight perched on top of him, gold optics glimmering in the dark.

            “What?” he mutters. Wing just leans down to nuzzle him, glossa flicking out to lick his cheek. He tries to be grumpy, but he’s got a feeling it’s not working, not with the way his energy field spikes in aroused interest. “Seriously? Trying to recharge.”

            Wing purrs, sitting back, and that’s when Drift notices his hand is down between his legs again. Wing’s long black fingers are buried deep in his own valve, spreading it out to let heated fluid drip onto Drift’s abdominal plating.

            “Bad pet, starting without me,” Drift says, but he can’t hide the aroused rev of his engine. It’s… quite a show. Wing rocks onto his hand, his optics never leaving Drift’s. His other hand slides down to tease his exterior node. He makes a noise between a chirr and a moan as he rubs against Drift’s interface panel, but Drift makes him wait—though it really is a challenge—watching him wriggle and squirm on his own fingers.

            “Thought I told you good pets don’t use their hands,” Drift says, finally opening his panel. Wing purrs as he feels the pressurized spike against his aft, but before he can settle onto it, Drift surges up, tipping him onto his back. “Looks like you need a reminder,” Drift adds, and he pulls the cuffs from subspace. Wing’s optics go bright and eager as he raises his arms. Drift cuffs him to the top of the berth, leaving the jet all spread out like an offering beneath him.

            “You know,” he says, teasing the rim of Wing’s eager valve with his spike, “that might not have been your best idea.”

            He eases in, enjoying the slickness. Wing hums, arching up.

            “I mean, if my pet wakes me up halfway through recharge,” Drift continues, setting a slow, easy pace, “you can’t blame me for being a little irritated.”

            Wing doesn’t look sorry at all as he works his hips, taking Drift deeper. His valve is ridiculously hot. Drift wonders how long his little jet was playing with himself before waking him up.

            “And I think that _you_ , pet, could use a little discipline.”

            Wing purrs.

            “Oh, you like the sound of that?” Drift leans closer, pitching his voice down to murmur in Wing’s audio. “I bet you think you’re getting a spanking. You _would_ like that, wouldn’t you. You’re a lot dirtier than I realized. You’d probably get off on that. Or maybe I could find that toy after all. You seemed to like that idea too.”

            Wing’s valve shudders around him. Drift’s close to overload too. Just close enough.

            “But,” he purrs, his lips right on Wing’s audial flare, “since this _is_ supposed to be discipline, I’m going to keep you just like this—right on the edge.”

            He draws out to the sound of Wing’s startled keen, wraps a hand around his spike, and brings himself off with a few brisk strokes, splashing transfluid across Wing’s gaping valve. Wing bucks unhappily.

            “You can still back out,” Drift promises, the barest whisper into his audio. “Just give the signal. But if you hang in there I’ll blow your mind.”

            Wing trembles, but his fists clench firmly. No backing out there.

            “Good boy.” Drift sits up to take in the whole picture. Wing, shivering on the edge of overload, his valve dripping. Aching for it. Drift rubs his own spike, letting Wing cool down a little at the same time. Finally Drift pushes back into him, drawing a moan from Wing’s spread lips.

            “Trust me,” he whispers, touching Wing’s cheek for one last bit of reassurance. Wing’s optics flicker, but he nods, arching his back to press harder against Drift. Drift lets him, for now, though he wraps his hands around Wing’s hips to get some control for when he needs it.

            Wing writhes on the edge of overload, his legs spread wide enough to hurt. His valve is dripping wet, the calipers working hard to take Drift’s spike in deeper and bring him to overload at last, but just before he reaches that peak, Drift pulls out. Wing gives a cry of anguish, thrusting his pretty hips forward.

            “Not going to be that easy.” Drift moves up to Wing’s shoulders, admiring his wide, pleading gold optics as they stare up from waist height. Drift takes his chin. With his other hand he pumps at his spike as the jet writhes, desperate for completion but unable to achieve it on his own.

            “Look at you,” Drift says, his voice rough. Although his tone is mocking, his energy field nudges against Wing’s, affectionate. “The precious pure knight, reduced to this. Wanting an ex-‘con to spike you senseless. You overload when I say so, remember? I can keep you like this for megacycles if I want. I’ll have you needing it so bad you won’t remember your own name. You won’t be thinking about honor then, or helping people, you’ll just want something filling up your greedy little valve.”

            Wing whimpers and sobs, the talk arousing him further, if possible. His vents roar noisily as he strains forward. Drift acts surprised.

            “Oh, you want this?” he asks, rubbing the tip of his spike against Wing’s lips. “Think if you suck me off I’ll let you overload?”

            Wing tilts his head up. He tries to catch the spike in his mouth, his glossa flicking out towards the tip. Drift slides away just too far and instead brings himself to overload with his hand, letting silvery transfluid splatter across Wing’s shocked face.

            “Did you think it’d be that easy?” he says. “I already told you how this will work. You don’t get to overload until I say.”

            He slides down Wing’s body again and grinds the heel of his hand against the jet’s dripping valve, feeling it work and shudder at the contact, steaming hot. He thrusts two of his fingers inside, fragging his pet with that alone, but he’s sure to miss all the really sensitive nodes. Transfluid drips down Wing’s face as he writhes and moans, his voice laced with static, shuddering all over. Drift drills him hard and fast with his fingers until Wing is arching so hard his whole body forms a beautiful curve, but Wing lets out a wail of frustration and despair as he pulls his fingers teasingly away at the last moment.

            “You can take this, can’t you?” Drift teases, running a finger down his face to smear transfluid across his mouth. “Forget all that training you’re so proud of?”

            He unhooks the gag, setting it aside on the berth as he kisses Wing, flicking his glossa inside as Wing works his sore jaw.

            “You can talk if you want,” he says into Wing’s mouth. “I want to hear some begging.”

            He waits for Wing to cool down just enough. Then he lifts Wing’s hips, bends his neck and runs his glossa around the slippery rim of the jet’s valve. Wing makes a sound like he’s dying. Drift’s glossa probes into the valve proper, flicking up at the rim nodes.

            Drift hums in appreciation and licks his lips showily. “I’m going to tear you apart, Wing, and you’re going to love it.”

            He plunges his glossa deeper into the jet’s sweet valve. Wing’s moans redouble, pitching higher. His plating shivers in a beautiful sound like crystal shattering, as Drift devours him from the inside out.

            “Oh Primus,” the jet cries, his voice stuttering and breaking. “Oh, Primus… oh… _oh_ …”

            “Forget him,” Drift says, drawing his glossa out again to relish Wing’s Spark-broken keen. “Know your priorities. _I’m_ the one who can give you what you want. What you so desperately need. But only if you ask nicely. _Beg._ ”

            Wing writhes helplessly, thrusting his hips against Drift’s mouth. “Please!” he shrieks. “Please—oh please oh please—please I’ll do _anything_ please I’m… so close now I… so… p… please…”

            He’s waited long enough, Drift decides, and he adds two fingers to Wing’s valve, letting Wing’s writhing guide him to the best sensors. Wing’s engines roar, drowning out his screaming overload. Drift raises his head to admire the view as every cable in Wing’s body goes taut, pulling him into a perfect shivering arch. Wing relaxes as the charge dissipates. His optics glimmer faintly as Drift slithers up to undo the cuffs, murmuring soft praise as he rubs the scratched armor of Wing’s wrists.

            “So good. You were so good, Wing. Thank you. All right now? You okay?”

            Wing nods, his mouth twitching into an exhausted smile. Drift unhooks the collar from around his throat and Wing settles against him, systems humming gently. He rubs behind Wing’s audial flares with one hand while the other draws a cube from subspace, tipping it against his partner’s mouth.

            “Drink up. That’s an order.”

            Wing looks like he wants to give some clever response, but Drift tips the cube more insistently and Wing has to shut up and drink his fuel. Wing’s fingers curl into a gap in his plating. Not an erotic touch, just affectionate. Drift lets him pause halfway through the cube.

            “That was interesting,” Wing says.

            “Interesting.”

            “And fun. Interesting and fun.”

            “Glad you’re so amused,” Drift says, shoving the cube to his mouth again.

            “Drift,” Wing says, batting it away long enough to lean up and brush a kiss across Drift’s mouthplates. “I liked it. Really.” His engines give a little rev. “ _Really_. I thought the sheer number of overloads might have given you a hint.”

            “Yeah, okay,” Drift grumbles. “And. That stuff I said back there. That wasn’t. I didn’t really…”

            Wing gets in another kiss. “I know.” His fangs nip and tug at Drift’s lip, drawing up a bead of fresh energon. His optics gleam with mischief and promise. “Next time,” he says, drawing his thumb idly across Drift’s throat where the collar would rest, “it’s your turn.”

            Drift’s engine revs. “Only fair,” he says evenly, but he can’t hide the eager fizz of his EM field.

            Wing kisses him again, glossa flicking to catch the energon welling up from Drift’s lip. “Good boy.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drift has a complicated relationship with authority.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something nice to carry us all through a tough arc of Wayward Light. By popular demand! SHEESH!

            Drift catches himself looking at it. He pulls it out of his subspace and turns it over and over, absently, in his hands. Remembers sliding a finger or two under it, pulling it tight, remembers Wing’s gasp. He remembers something blissful in Wing’s face, almost a meditation, something that made him remember circuit boosters and the airy oblivion of a high.

            He catches himself wondering what that feels like.

            And frankly, he has a lot of time to think about it. They keep themselves entertained wherever possible, but it’s a long time between spaceports. They spar and they frag and sometimes they just spend time in the same room, enjoying the silence, but there’s a lot more downtime than Drift is used to.

            In the end it’s not just the wondering or the boredom that gets to him. Wing is depressed. He’ll still smile and his conversation is just as chipper as ever, but in the silence he’ll look out into space and the smile will fade by degrees.

            He’s lonely. Homesick, too.

            Drift’s always been able to get by without interacting with others for a while—just Wing is all he needs—but Wing’s always had people around, far as Drift can tell. And Drift never really had a home, so there’s not much to miss—besides Cybertron, but their entire species misses Cybertron. Wing had chosen to come with him, eagerly, but New Crystal City was a lot more than a waystop or a prison to him. He’d lived there, helped build the place even, and now it’s a long way away.

            So Drift takes it from his subspace again: the collar.

            He goes to wrap it around his throat but stops at the last moment. Not sure why, but he wants Wing to do it. So he waits: parks himself on the berth in Wing’s hab suite and holds the collar in his hands and stares at the door.

            Doesn’t have to wait too long.

            “Drift? Where did you g—oh.” Wing’s attention flicks between Drift’s face and the collar.

            Drift clicks in embarrassment. “I thought. You’d maybe.” He shrugs. Wing saves him, crossing the room in a sway of skirting panels and sinking down next to Drift on the berth. He lifts the collar from Drift’s hands with faint reverence, and leans in to brush his lips across Drift’s cheek.

            “I’m honored,” he whispers. “Same signal?”

            Drift nods. Wing continues to feather kisses across his cheek, nasal ridge, the crest of his helm, while his clever fingers loop the collar around Drift’s throat, pulling it snug. His thumbs run up and down the tense cables of Drift’s neck.

            “Is it all right?” he asks. Drift nods. Wing nuzzles up close, pressing his lips right to Drift’s audio. “Do you trust me?”

            Drift squirms a little at that. He knows he’s too tense. He’s got no idea what to expect. But… it’s Wing. If there’s one person in all the universe that Drift could trust…

            “I trust you,” he whispers. Wing presses a finger to his lips in a gentle reminder, and Drift knows he isn’t supposed to talk, but he had to say it out lord. He’d never said it before. Needed Wing to be the first one to hear it. Worth it, to see the smile on Wing’s face, the warmth, like Drift has given him a gift.

            “I won’t hurt you,” Wing promises. “I will never hurt you.”

            He pats his thigh, a quiet signal. Drift rearranges himself so he can lie curled on his side, back to the door, head resting in Wing’s lap. Wing’s hands move over his helm, clever fingers stroking up and down his finials. Drift wonders what he’s supposed to do. Is there a trick to this? Hard to think when Wing rubs the tip of one finial between two fingers. He resists the urge to bury his face between Wing’s legs.

            “This works better if you relax, Drift,” Wing says quietly.

            Great. Is this another of those meditation things that Drift is bad at? He huffs a sigh through his vents. Wing’s fingers tuck behind his finials, finding the spots where they meet the rest of his helm. This doesn’t seem right. Seems like Wing is doing all the work. What’s he supposed to be doing?

            It hits him: he’s not supposed to do anything. There’s nothing _to_ do. That’s the point: pets don’t have responsibilities. Pets don’t have tragic backstories. Pets can put all that aside, focus on one thing at a time, whatever orders they’re given. Right now, that order: relax.

            The tension gradually leaks from his cables as he shifts, nuzzling a little closer to Wing, his engine rumbling softly. He sneaks a glance up and sees Wing smiling, optics half-shuttered. It’s the most content he’s looked in days.

            Drift wriggles into a more comfortable position, pushing his head insistently against Wing’s hands. Wing laughs.

            “That’s good, Drift. Good boy.”

            The words send an agreeable little shiver all down Drift’s spinal plates. He arches, eager for more, rolling onto his back. Wing leans over him, upside-down, and puts a finger over Drift’s lips.

            “Orders, pet,” he says. Drift quivers with the need for more touch. He opens his mouth to catch Wing’s finger but Wing pulls back quick as a flash, flicking Drift’s finial—hard—with his other hand. Drift yelps.

            “Pay attention, Drift,” Wing admonishes. “Orders. You…” He slides his hand down Drift’s chest, over to his side, finding all the most sensitive seams. Drift wriggles. “…are not,” Wing says, ducking down to kiss him upside-down. “To make… a sound.”

            Like that’s hard? _Oh_. Drift twitches as Wing’s fingers dip into a gap in his armor, tickling the circuitry. _Now_ it’s hard. He bites back a whine, arching up. He shoots Wing a glare that is shattered instantly as Wing’s fingers tweak a bit of cabling in his waist. Wing grins.

            “Think you can do that?”

            “Shouldn’t have expected you to play fair,” Drift grumbles, then hisses when Wing flicks his finial again.

            “Good pets don’t talk,” he reminds him, though he’s still grinning. “I can get the gag if you’d rather.”

            Drift shuts up, though he gives Wing his best Deadlock glare. Wing kisses the snarl from his lips.

            “Good boy. Now keep quiet and maybe you’ll get a treat.”

            His clever fingers, well acquainted with Drift’s body, dart from seam to seam, trying to sabotage him. The little jet is _evil_ , that’s what he is! All the sunny smiles and sweetness are just hiding it! Drift is practically vibrating with the urge to laugh uncontrollably under Wing’s tickling fingers, but all he does is vent air, tossing and twisting until Wing straddles his waist to pin him down. His fingers chase the building charge down to Drift’s interface panel, playing with the gaps in his thighs. Drift snaps his panel open hopefully.

            “Put that away,” Wing chastises, his hands going unforgivably still. “We’ll play with it later. I promise.”

            Drift bites back a groan, scrabbling at the berth as Wing teases the sensitive seams of his waist, down to his knees, toying with his wheel rims. Drift feels like he’s about to explode from keeping everything in, but instead overload breaks across his sensornet in a rush, intense and sudden and brief. He rides it out, swallowing the cries that want to escape.

            “Good,” Wing says, pressing a feathering kiss to his rims— _evil, evil little thing_ —must have been with a few grounders before to learn that trick. But right now his smile, his pride is all for Drift. “Good boy, Drift. Treat?”

            _Thought that_ was _the treat_ , Drift wants to say, but from subspace Wing pulls a bright pink chip. Drift tilts his head as though to say _where the frag did you get that?_

            Wing reads his question. “I might have picked some things up in the last port,” he says sheepishly. “I was hoping… well. I’m glad you decided to do this with me, Drift.”

            Drift holds out a hand, but Wing offers the chip right up to his mouth. Drift catches it between his fangs. His optics go wide and glassy as the treat dissolves across his glossa. Tasty little bit. Emphasis on the “little” and “bit.” He looks to Wing eagerly. _More of that, please._

            “If you’re good,” Wing says, leaning in to kiss his nasal ridge. “I’m going to check the consoles. Coming with?”

            A challenging prospect. It’s easy enough for Wing to walk to the bridge, but Drift’s not used to crawling around. Okay… so he cheats a little, waiting for Wing to leave before slinking to the door on his feet. Then he ducks down to his knees as he goes out. Wing casts a glance over his shoulder, smiling like he knows _exactly_ what Drift just did. Then he has the nerve to whistle, patting his leg.

            “Here, boy.”

            Drift grumbles and shoots him a dirty look, but Wing only smiles. It’s awkward and uncomfortable, but _Wayward Light_ is a small ship, and it’s not a long way to go. Drift settles at Wing’s feet with a huff and plops his chin down on the jet’s knee, avoiding the stabilizing fin. Wing leans over him to press a kiss to the top of his crest, hands stroking up and down Drift’s finials.

            “Good boy. Doing all right?”

            Drift mumbles nonsense words into Wing’s thigh. Wing’s laugh sends a little wash of warmth through him.

            “You’re even worse about the talking than I was,” he says, but he pulls another energon chip from subspace anyway and slides it between Drift’s lips. Drift enjoys the slow melt while Wing checks the consoles, and resists the urge to look. Not his problem. He’s the pet now. Got the collar on and everything. All he has to worry about is doing whatever Wing wants. Get a few more of those treats. Sweet pole-dancing Primus, he didn’t know energon could taste like this.

            Wing whistles again and he looks up from his energon chip-induced hazy delight. His partner dangles another chip over his head.

            “Look up.”

            Drift tilts his head back a little more, opening his mouth. Wing giggles. No, he _actually_ giggles, a sweet little sound that Drift doesn’t hear nearly enough.

            “Like a hungry Sharkticon,” the jet says. He pulls the treat up and away when Drift tries to snap it up. “Bad pet. Hold still.”

            Drift shoots him a Look. _You’ve_ got _to be kidding._

            “Come on,” Wing coaxes. “You’ll get to eat it eventually.” Drift snorts. Nope. He’s got dignity, collar or no collar. Seriously, he didn’t make Wing do anything like this when he was the pet. Okay, there was the whole drinking from a cube on the floor without his hands while Drift stuck his glossa in his valve but that was _different_.

            Wing leans down close, his voice pitching low. “Do this for me and when I take that collar off I’ll let you frag me until I scream.”

            Ah. Tempting offer.

            Drift huffs out another sigh and tilts his head back, shutting his mouth. Wing balances the chip right across his nasal ridge. His EM field spikes with amusement as he lifts his hands away.

            “There you go,” he says, riding the edge of a laugh. “A chance to work on your posture, too.”

            Drift wants to snap at him. His facial plates are already burning.

            “Don’t even think about it,” Wing says. _Scary_ , that. “Unless you want me to punish you.”

            Drift’s engine rumbles quietly. He’s considering it. Seriously.

           “It’s probably too much to hope that I could…” Wing’s toeplates brush Drift’s interface panel and Drift jolts, the treat toppling.

            “Doesn’t count,” Drift says. “Sabotage.”

            Wing sighs. “ _Talking_.” He grabs Drift’s finial—not the feathering or petting touches of before, but a firm grip—and pulls him forward, between his legs. Drift is, unsurprisingly, not torn up by this. He nuzzles between Wing’s thighs to his as-yet-untouched panel.

            “Make it up to you.”

            Wing’s thumb pushes into his mouth, depressing his glossa, while his fingers hook around his chin and tilt his head up.

            “Enough, Drift.”

            Drift wraps his glossa around Wing’s thumb, trying to tempt him, but Wing gives his finial a painful tweak. His voice is firm, commanding.

            “Settle down.”

            Some part of Drift bristles, but the larger part of him shivers. He sinks down, meekly, even as his spike rages behind its cover.

            (Drift has a complicated relationship with authority.)

            “You,” Wing says, “are being a naughty pet. I’ve tried to be nice, Drift. I’m willing to spoil you, if you’ll let me.” He pulls a little harder on the finial, tilting Drift’s head back further. “But you,” he says, barely more than a whisper—not that Drift misses a single word, with how close their faces are to touching—“need to remember who’s in charge. Can you do that?”

            Drift whines. Wing’s fangs close around his upper lip, nipping a bead of energon to the surface, and his clever glossa flicks it away.

            “There’s my good boy.” He clicks open his panel and moves his hand from Drift’s mouth, but keeps his hold on the finial, easing him forward. “Your choice.”

            Drift nuzzles against his plating, dragging his glossa against Wing’s spike cover, coaxing it back. He sucks Wing’s spike into his mouth and Wing lets out a shaky sigh, his thumb sliding up and down the sharp edge of Drift’s finial. Aside from that, he doesn’t react. The hand on his helm gives Drift a little room to move, so he settles more comfortably, hands resting on Wing’s thighs. He obeys the mouth-only rule without being told. He can do enough with his lips and glossa. _More_ than enough. If it’s Wing, he doesn’t mind.

            He shutters his optics, sinking into an easy rhythm. It’s comforting, really, having Wing all around him like this, knowing Wing is in command. He’s got nothing to concern himself with but Wing’s pleasure. And that, he knows how to do. His glossa probes all the sensor nodes lined up along the underside of Wing’s spike, tracing the elegant spiraling shapes. He always thought it was funny, how the Circle likes everything functional _and_ ornamental. It had been a pleasant surprise to see Wing’s spike the first time. Then again what did he expect? Every _other_ part of Wing is pointlessly pretty too.

            Wing whispers little words of praise as Drift tastes the sweet sharpness of an oncoming overload. He draws it out of Wing with more teasing flickers of his glossa, and the jet lets out a low moan that’s almost like singing as he spills out into Drift’s throat. Drift makes sure to catch it all. He smirks, pleased with himself, as he raises his head, glossa running over his lips to get anything he might have missed.

            “Good boy,” Wing says, pressing kisses to his helm, one, two, three. “Very… _no_ , Drift.”

            His foot knocks Drift’s wandering hands away from his own interface panel. _Oh, come on,_ Drift wants to complain. _You can’t expect me to have my face between your legs and not get charged up!_ But he doesn’t complain, because Wing’s hand is tight and commanding on his finial again.

            “None of that,” Wing says. “Not yet.” A lick of promise in his voice that makes Drift’s plating rattle in a shiver. “Go back to my hab suite and wait for me.” His voice drops half an octave. “And don’t even _think_ about opening your panel.”

            His subvocs promise no mercy for disobedience. Drift, of course, is tempted anyway. He’s interested to see what Wing comes up with for punishment. So he plays nice all the way back to the hab suite, crawling and everything, even though Wing has already vanished into the hold. Then he flops down on Wing’s berth and has his panel open quick as shuttering an optic.

            His spike leaps into his hand. If there’s a sure-fire way to get him revved up, it’s when Wing takes command. Sure, he likes the sweetness too, likes to pin Wing down and frag him until he cries for release, but dominant Wing gets his systems humming in an entirely different way.

            He sets a lazy pace, stretching out on his back with a grateful hum of enjoyment. No need to hurry. The time limit is part of the fun, knowing Wing’s going to be back any moment. The thought of getting caught makes his systems sing. He can take whatever Wing dishes up in punishment. He’s had worse with the Decepticons.

            He wants to see just how far he can push it. Wants to know just how Wing plans to keep him under control.

            The hab suite door opens. Wing’s got one hand on his hip, as though he already knew exactly what he would find when he came in. The other carries a plain bucket. He doesn’t look surprised as he takes in Drift all spread out with a hand on his spike. His pretty mouth turns downward, even though his optics sparkle.

            “Drift,” he says reprovingly. Drift tilts his head. _Who, me?_ “I gave you an order. Hands off.”

            Drift smirks at him. _Oh yeah? Make me._

            Wing shakes his head, puts down his bucket, and crosses the room. He grasps one of Drift’s finials and twists sharply. Drift yelps at the unexpected pressure, twisting along with the touch until suddenly his hand comes down on air and he tumbles off the berth in a crash. Wing swallows a laugh.

            “I tried to do this the easy way, Drift.” And he pulls the leash out of his subspace as Drift scrambles to his feet. “But it looks like you haven’t changed since Crystal City.” He hooks the leash onto the collar. “I found out early that you only respond to force.”

            He leisurely wraps the leash twice around his hand. He’s not really pulling, but Drift finds himself easing forward anyway, magnetically, his face already tilting up. It’s like he’s baring his throat to a dominant hand, and after a moment, heat rises in his face and he tries to tug backwards. Wing steps into his space. It’s ridiculous, but somehow—even though Drift _knows_ that Wing’s shorter than him, it feels like Wing’s looking down on him, like Drift is tiny.

            Wing says nothing. That doesn’t mean he’s not giving an order. Drift can feel its pressure against his plating, the slightest downward tug on the leash. Drift looks away first, feels the collar tight around his throat, and without any verbal urging, he sinks to his knees.

            Wing doesn’t say anything, but there’s a definite air of approval. Drift looks up in time to see Wing’s optics narrow slightly. Is it the closest thing to a smile that he’ll get?

            Whatever it is, Drift feels a pulse of heat in his neglected spike. He shifts minutely. It’s enough. Wing’s leg slides forward, rubbing between Drift’s thighs until Drift’s spike nudges against his shin plating. Drift whines.

            “Quiet.” Wing’s voice cracks like a whip and Drift flinches. But at least Wing doesn’t move his leg away. Drift shutters his optics, unable to take Wing watching him as he rocks helplessly.

            “You’re insatiable, you know that?” Wing says, and even though the tone is cold, his EM field brushes affectionately against Drift’s, reassuring.

            Drift’s hips thrust impatiently against the contact he can’t quite get enough of. Before he knows it he’s leaning forward, hands coming up to hold Wing’s hips, nuzzling between his legs, gasping open-mouthed against his panel, seeking desperately for a sign that Wing feels anything from this.

            There’s a sharp intake above him and Wing steps back, yanking on the leash. Drift topples forward and just manages to catch himself before his face smacks into the floor. But half a second later, Wing’s foot is on the back of his head, pressing his face into the floor anyway. Drift manages to turn his head before his nasal ridge is dented; he still makes a pained noise when Wing rests more weight on him. He’s trapped in an awkward, undignified position, with his hips up in the air. Wing’s other foot is right in front of him, letting him catch the scent of recently cleaned metal.

            “Did I say you could touch me?” Wing asks.

            “S-sor…” Drift tries, but Wing grinds down on him and he yelps, fingers scratching at the floor.

            “Did I say you could put your mouth anywhere near me?” Wing says, leaning down. _Oh_ , he’d learned that snarling tone from Drift.

            “The only place,” Wing continues, his harmonics laced with chilly anger, “you can put that mouth is on my _boot_ , like the pathetic pet you are.” His foot grinds down and Drift cries out, squirming. “Got that?”

            Wing presses down and Drift bites off a whine, wincing. Then he gets it. His face goes hot yet again, this time in more humiliation than pleasure, and he tilts his face as much as he can towards the foot right in front of his face, opens his mouth and licks it. The pressure on his head eases off slightly. He resigns himself—it could be worse—they keep a tidy ship so Wing’s feet are every bit as clean as the rest of him—and does it again.

            He laps at an imaginary smudge. Above him, he hears a tiny sigh. The foot on his head isn’t grinding him down any more, keeping him in his place while allowing some movement. Drift eases his head forward so he can get his mouth on more. He’d rather have Wing’s spike in his mouth again. He parts his lips wider, his glossa leaving a wet trail across the metal. Would Wing finally react again? Would he moan? Or would he just glare at Drift—and would that be even better?

            Drift makes an unconscious, hungry sound. He reaches between his own legs, grabbing his spike. Wing’s foot grinds down on his head again.

            “Did I say you could touch yourself?” Wing says.

            It takes great discipline, but Drift pulls his hand away, clenching it into a fist on the floor instead, and redoubles his efforts, mouthing and panting against Wing’s foot. His hips shift in the air, his spike aching for touch. He whines, pressing open-mouthed kisses across the metal. It feels like hours before Wing’s weight lifts off of his head.

            “Turn over,” Wing says. Drift does, rolling onto his back and clenching his hands into tight fists—he’s certain he’s still not allowed to touch himself yet, not matter how he needs it. He can’t look at Wing’s face for long. He shutters his optics and tilts his head back as Wing’s foot presses down lightly on his spike. He can’t help but squirm, rocking his hips up, hoping—hoping he can at least have that.

            Wing tugs on his leash. “Look at me,” he says. Drift whimpers and cracks his optics open obediently. Wing is leaning down slightly, and his optics burn and freeze at the same time. But what makes Drift moan and rock his hips up with more fervor is that he can see it again. That same spark that’s in Wing’s eyes when they spar. The knowledge, and enjoyment, that he is utterly in control.

            It’s far too much with Wing looking at him like this. Drift moans and arches. His vents roar as he sucks in great gasping pants to cool his overheating systems, his optics fixed on Wing’s, pinned by the hunger in his gaze. He dissolves into overload, spilling out onto his torso, and managing—through a heroic effort—to watch Wing’s face the entire time.

            “Good,” Wing says. “That’s good, Drift.”

            He steps away, giving the leash a gentle tug. Drift doesn’t think he can get up, but he pulls himself together—because Wing wants it—and manages the short crawl to the berth, pulling himself up. Wing unhooks the leash, and his thumbs play with the catch on the collar, silently questioning. Drift shakes his head, brushing his hands meekly against Wing’s waist, not daring to pull him closer. Wing moves forward anyway, one knee on the berth beside Drift, his hands stroking all up and down Drift’s arms, back, neck, finials. He kisses Drift firmly, murmuring between each one, “You did so well, Drift. So well. I’m proud of you.”

            He moves as though to draw away and Drift whines, grabbing onto his arms. Wing presses fluttering kisses against his lips again.

            “Only for a moment, Drift. I promise. I promise.”

            Finally Drift lets him go, watches him dance across the room to pick up his bucket, and then wing is back, settling down comfortably on the berth. Drift cranes his neck to see, but it’s just a bucket of solvent and a cloth which the jet wrings out. Drift shivers as his partner cleans off the silvery transfluid spattered across his torso. When the last of it is gone, though, he keeps going, moving on piece by piece to the rest of Drift’s body. Drift sits patiently. This is the sort of touch he’s more used to from Wing, each one a reassurance.

            Wing hums quietly while he works, lulling Drift into a light doze. With Wing’s energy field all around him, calm ripples of affection, he feels… relaxed. Safe. It’s been a rare enough feeling all his life, first in the gutters, then with the Decepticons. Even in Crystal City he’d always had the sense of being watched. But here, now, it’s just the two of them. No one to judge him but Wing.

            Something taps his lips and he shakes himself awake. He opens his mouth for another of those fragging delicious little energon chips. Wing leans over to push the bucket safely under the berth, but the jet’s not done with him yet. From subspace he produces polish and a fresh cloth, and sets back to work. This time he’s a little more talkative.

            “I love your hands,” he says, his thumb massaging the last of the tension from Drift’s palm as his polishing cloth works in sweeping circles on Drift’s wrist and forearm. And then, a little later, “Have I mentioned recently that I love your shoulders?” He speaks up several more times, a catalogue of places here and there across Drift’s body, things he would never even have thought about. His knee stabilizers. The joints at his waist. His biolights. His wheel rims. And a part of Drift wants to grumble that it’s not like _he_ has much to do with it, it’s the Crystal City techs who reformatted him, except he knows that’s not really what Wing means.

            By the time Wing’s through with him Drift is practically gleaming, head to toeplates.

            “Just about done,” he says, tucking his supplies back into his subspace. Just about? He hasn’t missed a spot. Except _oh_. Wing’s hand slides down to his interface panel, rubbing little circles. Drift whines and lets his spike pressurize into Wing’s waiting hand. Wing presses a kiss to the gold crest of his helm as his clever fingers wrap around it.

            “Good,” he praises, his other hand settling on Drift’s shoulder. His optics glint with amusement. “Carefully, Drift. We don’t want to undo my hard work.”

            Drift tries not to squirm too much as Wing settles atop him, straddling his freshly-polished hips. His partner’s interface panel is open already, and Drift can only watch, his hands sliding onto Wing’s knees, as Wing’s fingers dip down to tease open his valve cover. Luckily Wing’s not in a teasing mood: he’s barely opened up before he eases his hips forward, guiding Drift’s spike with his hand until it finds the rim of his valve already glistening with lubricant. He sinks down carefully, hips moving in a slow roll to wake up each of their sensory nodes.

            Wing slumps forward over him, hands alighting on Drift’s shoulders.

            “Drift,” he whispers, and Drift can’t decide where he wants to look more: at the sleek curve of Wing’s body as it undulates slowly on his spike, or at Wing’s face, slack with pleasure. He pushes his hips up, cautious in case Wing scolds him for moving, but Wing just purrs and speeds up.

            “That’s… sss _o_ good, Drift,” Wing gasps, rocking happily, his hands kneading at Drift’s shoulders. “Have I told you… mm. Have I ever told you how good you feel inside me?”

            _No, but holy frag do tell_ , Drift wants to say, but he just barely keeps that in, and what comes out is a needy groan. The praise and the worshipful touch fizz across his systems.

            “Nn _nn_ , so good,” Wing moans, staring down through half-shuttered optics. “Drift… Drift. You’re so beautiful.”

            _Beautiful_ is not a word anyone has ever used to describe Drift, and it lodges in his chest, warm and bright. Wing, who _knows_ these things better than a gutter-rat ever could, thinks he’s beautiful. Drift plants his feet and thrusts up harder, and Wing’s hips move smoothly over him, taking his spike in long, hot sweeps.

            Wing throws his head back, mouth falling open as his pleasure tries to shape itself to sounds and fails. He shudders in overload. At the same moment his wings flare out, flashing and shivering, a beautiful display. Between that and the excess charge skittering through him and Wing’s calipers squeezing down tight around him, Drift groans and bucks up hard, almost dislodging Wing with the force of his overload.

            Wing relaxes on top of him. His wings slowly fold in, tucking neatly onto his back, as he rests his hands on either side of Drift’s face. He leans down to press another kiss on his mouthplates.

            “Good, Drift,” he sighs, smiling against Drift’s lips. “So good.”

            He slides off of Drift’s spike and cleans them up with one of the cloths. Drift’s armor ticks as it cools; both of their fans are working hard to ventilate their heat-stressed systems.

            Wing’s fingers are deft as they unhook the collar, which vanishes into his subspace. Finally he flops down with a contented groan, propping his head on one hand so he can keep an eye on Drift.

            “Why are you all the way over there?” Drift mutters.

            “I don’t want to smudge your polish,” Wing says, but he’s barely gotten the words out before Drift grabs him, tugging him into the curve of his body. Wing laughs, resting his head on Drift’s chest. His hand curls delicately over Drift’s shoulder.

            “Was I… was I too hard on you?” he asks in a whisper. He’s doing those big earnest optics again, and his mouth is pressed into a worried little line. Drift smooths it with his thumb.

            “You could be a little harder,” he says. Wing’s mouth twitches into a smile.

            “I’ll remember that next time.”

            Ooh, Primus. _Next time._ That’s promising. Drift’s engine rumbles a little.

            “Hey,” he says. “I seem to remember you said something about… letting me frag you ‘til you scream?”

            “I did say that, didn’t I.”

            “A knight honors his promises,” Drift says, in gentle mockery of Wing’s solemn Circle subvocs. Wing snorts at him, butting the top of his head against Drift’s chin.

            “Can a knight recharge first? Hard work keeping you in line.”

            “I guess I can wait,” Drift says. Wing snuggles closer. He’s a perfect armful, tucked against Drift like this.

            “I don’t deserve you,” Wing whispers.

            Drift freezes, startled. _Are you joking?_ he wants to ask. _You deserve a whole lot better._ But—his freshly-polished plating catches the light as he turns his arm this way and that, and he remembers Wing lavishing attention on him, murmuring praise as he cleans and polishes Drift to a shine, like he’s worth it. Not for his skills or his kill count, but just… as is. Worth something.

            So he bites back six different snarky remarks he could have used to push the moment aside, and instead takes it for what it is. He wraps his arms more tightly around Wing and plants a kiss to the top of his head, and runs wondering fingers up and down the folded lines of white wings until Wing starts to purr.

            “Hey,” he says suddenly. “Got any more of those treats?”

**Author's Note:**

> I love to read people's comments! (Hint hint.)


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